The Silver Champion
by The Penitent Heretic
Summary: Gifted. Intelligent. Enigmatic. Harry James Potter is many things - promised, even. There's just a little prophesy standing in the way of his pursuit for revenge and enlightenment. So how does one go about claiming that which is unattainable? With a modest fortune, a silver tongue, and a liberal amount of blood work. Triwizard Tournament. AU. Slytherin and polygamous Harry.


_I neither own Harry Potter nor have I created this magnificent world. I'm just utilizing the sandbox of gold Rowling has laid bare for all of us. Concepts and OOC characters may indeed be mine, though I doubt any of them don't lend some credence or inspiration to others' works at some point in time. Cheers._

* * *

Green irises glazed over in morbid curiosity even as his pupils dilated ever so slightly in impeccably concealed shock. His pace never faltered as a trickle of sweat fell and collected on his lower back. The imperceptible peach fuzz outlining the rim of his ears stood on end as the sound of a deep, throttled whooshing filled his hearing; the flapping of a pair of giant wings belonging to some great beast seemed to fill the entirety of the dark hall but was undoubtedly heard only by him. His eyes, his perspiration, and even his heartbeat worked against him in tandem, revealing to any impossibly perceptive individual just how truly caught off guard he was in this moment. Yet none of his peers or likely anyone in the entirety of the hall picked up on these signs. The paramount power of observation was rendered moot by dim lighting, a thin layer of fabric, and instinctively made perceptions by a baffled audience.

Almost in spite of himself, Harry Potter barely restrained his lips from forming a thin smirk.

He was walking on thin ice at the moment, and something as normally inconsequential as a smirk in this instance could cause what little ground he was left standing on to crumble. The sea of faces that met his eyes wherever they ventured punctuated this. Looks of confusion, anger, envy, lust, and even honest to god pride played across the faces of hundreds of students, staff members, and guests. They were all watching him so intensely, like hawks. Someone else might have buckled under the pressure, but having lived in his own shoes for as long as he had, Harry was no stranger to handling a crowd filled with barely restrained emotion. If anything, he had quickly become an expert at it and was used to these scenarios. What he wasn't used to, however, was feeling no more in the loop than the rest of the individuals in the room. Their looks of confusion mirrored his own baffled thoughts, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.

As always however, he controlled himself. He called upon his natural talent in Occlumency, both in preparation for the upcoming confrontation and as a distraction from the emotions swirling within him. Despite popular belief, or as popular as a belief can be regarding the secretive practice of mind arts, the uses associated with Occlumency did not include allowing you to suppress feelings at a whim. Occlumency was simply the pinnacle form of guarding your mind from foreign intruders seeking to extract information, not lock down your own localized emotions. Anyone that said otherwise was clearly not a practitioner of the increasingly diminishing art. All one had to do was look at the likes of Snape or Malfoy Sr., both of whom were likely versed to some extent in the mind arts, and see that they had some of the sloppiest control a person could possibly have over their emotions. No, mustering up the will power to control your emotions was something a person had to do themselves; something Harry had learned the hard way when he was younger.

Still, he found that the practice of clearing his mind helped when it came to things like this. He was undoubtedly going to become the center of a very intense discussion in the coming moments, and locking away his loose memories ahead of time not only distracted his thought process from worrying, but it also allowed him to secure his mind from any would be mental assailants. One could never be too careful, after all, even in such a public setting as this.

Dumbledore stood at the end of the Great Hall next to the Goblet of Fire as the other four Heads of School slowly converged on the Headmasters position; the five of them watching his approach with equally stone faced looks that he internally applauded. If the likes of Fudge were ever a Headmaster, he'd likely already be near deaf by the loud accusations the man would raise against him. In comparison to that, their combined restraint was appreciated. That being said, the looks of shock - and anger in some cases - in their eyes said all he needed to know. As he neared the hundred year old relic at the front of the Great Hall, its blue flame hauntingly gliding across his fair skin the closer he got, he found his lips suddenly dry.

The power radiating from the blazing goblet was terrifying. It was as though the minute intelligence only now sensed it had been wronged, and its ire was directed at those within its immediate vicinity. The Headmasters and Headmistresses seemed to easily ignore the oppressive magical presence in lieu of boring him with their eyes, but he knew it couldn't be much easier for them.

The judges themselves weren't helping to alleviate the already high magical pressure in the area, some of their individual auras leaking out in some subtle display of intimidation. Dumbledore's look of penetrating concern could almost be mistakable for suspicious intensity were it on anyone else. No doubt the Headmaster was just as disturbed by the turn of events as he was, though Harry felt he saw more than a little sympathy in the older man's eyes. Towering a few feet above the Headmaster was the Beauxbatons headmistress. Maxine seemed the most aloof of the five, though her sharp grey eyes were narrowed with clear accusation. Both the stone faced Headmaster Mifune from Urumura and the calculating Headmistress Wilkinson from Salem eyed him with suspicion, but thankfully nothing more on the surface. It was clear they were the least experienced in the group and thus saw fit to follow Dumbledore's lead for the time being. Lastly and furthest away from the Goblet, Karkaroff looked as though he were suppressing a snarl, his lips twitching awkwardly with every step Harry took.

Sighing to himself, Harry met them at the steps of the Head Table where the Goblet thrummed loudest. The journey from his seat to the center of the dais had taken a scant half a minute, but to everyone else in the room it had felt like a tense hour. Finally, just as Dumbledore went to open his mouth and ask the question of nearly everyone's minds, he was abruptly cut off.

"I, Harry James Potter, do solemnly swear on my magic and my life that I have had no previous affiliation in the Tournament other than as an anonymous donator and benevolent bystander, with no interest in the proceedings beyond the capacity afforded to any curious spectator. I'm innocent of any and all tampering with the Goblet of Fire, currently ignorant of any ploys or schemes to enter me in said tournament, and yet offer no contestation to my competing in the task now that it has been… thrust upon me. So mote it be."

He figured he'd nip this in the bud right away. It didn't appear to be very wily of him, but long term it was better to get ahead of false rumors than to eventually survive them. While allowing others to think of you as cunning, nefarious, resourceful, or even powerful, as would be expected of someone who was able to cheat their way past the defenses set up by five headmasters in order to enter the tournament, the risks to his reputation far out classed the positives of having a public image comeback. He wasn't one to dawdle much over what the common wizard thought, but neither was he arrogant enough to think this wouldn't affect just about every aspect of his life as it stood.

His wand poised still in the air, having previously been swiftly drawn from his arm holster, Harry proceeded to conjure a luminous fountain of water. It jetted out of his wand and hovered fluidly in the air before forming a detailed mirage of a weeping angle. Rather fitting, he felt. Those who knew him couldn't deny that he'd often been one for theatrics when opportune. With a swish of his wand, the water angel froze and fell to the ground with a crash as the ice sculpture tumbled and cracked.

Just like that, the silence that followed his initial magical oath was broken. Magical oaths worked their magic on those in the immediate vicinity so long as ample power was at hand, and Harry was modest if he said he had more than enough to ensnare and project the truth on everyone in the school grounds. From officials to staff, guests to students, whisperings, mutterings, and scrambled gasps of surprise filled the hall. The ruckus was substantial, but Harry had bigger fish to fry as the five headmasters descended on him and ushered him into the side chamber alongside the previously selected champions. One look at their faces, regardless of his unsettling oath, and he knew one thing was for sure.

He was in for a long night. 

* * *

"Potter?"

A fist rapped smartly on the ebony door to the immaculately polished bathroom, barely heard above the music enthusiastically blasting some distance away. Cutting through the soft noise was a familiar voice, followed by more knocking.

Harry remained quiet as he ran the faucet, letting the icy cold water pool in his hands before bringing it up and gently splashing it on his face. It felt as though death herself was kissing his cheeks, her frosty breath teasing the nape of his neck. It was a feeling that brought up vivid memories most would sooner forget in his position, but ones he couldn't help but willingly dwell on. The calming sensation of waking up the good old fashioned way was just an added bonus in his eyes.

Another knock on the door came, more insistent this time.

"Harry, please…"

Harry ignored the soft feminine voice, continuing to languidly rinse his face. Eventually the knocking stopped and footsteps sounded off leading away from the chamber. Whoever had been at the door had eventually given up, not wanting to see him enough to risk casting a simple unlocking charm on the door. That suited him just fine. He wasn't in the mood to entertain anyone just yet, not even one of his best friends.

He massaged his temples with the frigid water, his dull headache slowly but surely ebbing away, the pressure alleviating even as the small pool in the sink drained. As he let out a sigh of relief, he sensed an all too familiar presence. Straightening his back from having bent over the faucet and opening his eyes to look into the pristine wall length mirror, he wasn't remotely surprised to see a beautiful ebony haired girl standing behind him. A soft but crooked smile was plastered on her face, and he couldn't help but smirk ever so subtly back.

He really wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone… except maybe her and one other.

Tracey Davis was a sight to behold. Standing at 175cm, she was just a centimeter or two shorter than Harry was; an exceptional height for a girl who'd just turned fifteen. Her school robes having been left behind for the Announcement Feast earlier that night, she was now clad in the complimentary uniform given to all witches attending the magical school: a simple knee-length skirt, high socks, short but formidable heels, and a plain white blouse. She had apparently abandoned her tie alongside her robes, as her blouse was not only tieless but a third unbuttoned, just enough to show the soft curves of her collarbone and a fair amount of pale skin, but not enough to tease cleavage. Her skirt seemed shorter than normal, but again, tastefully so.

Indeed everything about her seemed at once both rebellious and conformist, contradictorily enticing. Even her hair managed to make a bold fashion statement: cropped into an untamed pixie cut, as black and nearly as messy as his own, and yet somewhat regal looking. It matched her ivory skin, high cheekbones, and proportionate pink lips. In their third year, when she'd first dawned the look, he had called her an "aristocrat gone wrong". She'd laughed and punched him in the shoulder. He could honestly say she'd more than grown into the look over the years.

"Davis," he greeted neutrally, using the mirror to look directly into her eyes. He didn't bother asking just how she had so stealthily entered the bathroom, just as she didn't bother questioning how he always seemed to know she was there. Those unanswered questions had stopped back in their second year.

Instead she looked back unflinchingly, even as her smirk grew more pronounced. While the tone of his greeting had been indifferent, his eyes said something else entirely. Beneath a slew of different emotions she'd rather not see on him, weariness being a prevalent one, they shone with what she knew was fondness for her.

"Potter," she mimicked his tone to the tee.

They stared at each other for a few seconds longer, her eyes attempting to convey so much to him that could never be voiced aloud, but as always he broke eye contact first. ' _Ever the gentleman,_ ' she thought in exasperation.

She walked up behind him as he busied himself straightening down the sleeves he'd rolled up upon entering the bathroom, her heels clicking almost soundlessly on the white marble floor. She placed her long arms around his broad frame, draping herself over him, her head going into the crook on the left side of his neck as her body pushed snugly against his. It was a brash move for anyone, but she'd done it many times before and so the position felt like second nature by now, though she never got used to the intense emotions that arose in her while being so close to him.

Harry had finished straightening himself out and now just gazed at his ebony haired best friend who, despite her normal indifferent façade, seemed utterly content in the moment. A moment he repeatedly hated to shatter, as her soft smile would stiffen and her happy eyes would dim ever so noticeably. He never got accustomed to the disappointment she could instill in him with but a glance. Few (he could count them on a single hand) had that power over him. And yet, he always broke eye contact, always had to keep moving, reminding her who they were to one another.

Sensing his impending movement, Tracey's arms stiffened around him.

"Wait," she said. Her eyes bored into his, her smile seemingly amused at his not so subtle attempts at preserving their status quo. "I know it's been a long day. You know I don't want answers nor do I require explanations. I'm by your side no matter what… always have been."

Her words were truth. Throughout the various challenges, trials, and hi-jinks he'd been unfortunate enough to undergo in his past four years at Hogwarts, she'd always been there for him. He knew she always would be, too.

"So… just give me this."

His gaze turned inquisitive.

"Look at us, Harry."

He acquiesced to her request, knowing she used his first name only in rare moments of earnest. Gazing intently at the mirror he saw the pale beauty fondly holding a young man seemingly in his late teens. Raven colored hair that looked windswept and now damp lay upon a fair skinned face, neither gaunt nor beefy, but… esteemed. Aristocratic features were subtly there, but not to the extent of the woman behind him. His skin, however, was flawless. Not a blemish in sight. Emerald eyes raging with something even he couldn't place stared back at him, steely yet serene. Broad shoulders, an athletic build and an impressive height rounded out his summary of the man in the mirror; the man he'd become.

Together the two of them made quite the sight. Two half-bloods, two best friends, two partners. No doubt he was missing whatever it was she wanted him to see, but that wasn't altogether unexpected. She often saw things he didn't.

Locking eyes with her reflection, he raised a lone eyebrow reminding her of everyone's not-so-favorite potions master. She sighed in exasperation at his cynical behavior before rolling her eyes, amused at his ever-mocking antics in light of her sentimental moments. And people thought _she_ was the cold one between the two of them.

"Now you have something to think back to when things get bad this year, which they will," she explained.

She smirked at his childish grumble at the latter bit, but knew he appreciated her intentions all the same. She was hardly ever this touchy, this open. She knew it. He knew it. It only drove home just how worried she was for him at the moment, due to the magnitude of the mess he was about to enter.

Harry didn't like the seriousness of the situation. A smirk tugged at his lips as he turned to look at her face to face.

"Why? Worried for me already, Davis?"

Her full lips curved upwards, showing dazzling white teeth.

"Eh, maybe a little," she said with a shrug. "Wouldn't want to lose my favorite pet after all. Harry Potter dies, and I – along with everyone else in this little ol' world – will lose our favorite pastime. Not to mention all the fangirls of the Boy Who Lived would probably drown themselves with sorrow, or even worse, cause the rest of us to kill ourselves to escape their pathetic laments." She grinned cheekily at him. "Besides, if you're gone, who is going to shut up that blonde prat with a daddy complex?"

He returned the grin in full force after mock quivering at the thought of fangirls, his worries momentarily pushed to the back of his mind. "Eh, I'm sure someone could reign him in. Probably Lily."

Her lips twitched at the mention of her full-blooded classmate and friend, and more importantly Harry's girlfriend. She didn't like thinking of her when they were alone, and he _knew_ it. She was once again reminded of how uncaring and calloused he could be at times, poking people where they hurt, but she knew he always had his reasons.

"What, you don't trust me to be able to take care of Malfoy?" she asked in a tone of false incredulity.

"I don't know, Davis. You seem like the type to be susceptible to his wily charms." He punctuated this with the wiggle of his eyebrows, which earned him a none too soft punch in the chest.

"Prat!" she shrieked, laughter escaping both of them at the ludicrous thought of anyone being attracted to the Malfoy heir. She grabbed his arm and tugged him towards the door. "Now if you're quite done plotting revenge and gathering yourself, come on. There's a common room full of your adoring peers ready to congratulate your upcoming victories. I suppose you should make your appearance soon, or Merlin forbid Greengrass will send a search party out for you."

"Yeah, she'd just visited me right before you showed up."

"Mmm. Imagine what she'll do when she finally gets a hold of you." She scoffed and it did interesting things to her chest. More importantly, Harry was fully aware of how much the two girls seemed to resent one other in spite of their tolerance for each other around Harry. "Crucifixion, here we come!"

Harry put on a hurt look but the smile remained on his face. "You wound me. Crucifixion, indeed?!"

"Indeed," she mimicked in a knowing tone, still tugging him like a petulant child does to a parent who isn't moving fast enough. 

* * *

The minute they left the bathroom, blaring noise met their ears. Deep bass riffs, reverberating drum beats, and jeering from a glory drunk crowd all blended together into a cacophony of sound that one could only find at a very lively party. Turning the corner Harry paused with Tracey at the top of the stairs leading down to the common room. The balcony provided a perfect view for the raucous activities their housemates were currently engaging in.

Hunter-green banners covered the high walls of the circular common room, draped over the tops of the mahogany bookshelves that lined the opulent chamber. Ebony furniture was scattered about at the far corners of the common room, pushed to the fringes to make way for the dance floor that looked like a moving sea of black on a field of green, as students pressed close to one another and glided and rolled to the sound coming over the wizarding wireless. The rug could hardly be seen beneath the throng of moving bodies. Hogwarts' Slytherin common room was alive with a pulse all its own.

The smell of firewhiskey permeated the air and assaulted his nostrils along with the stench of flavored cigars from a few fifth years meandering around the base of the stairs. The atmosphere in the vast room was thick and heady, heat rolling off the bodies of the celebrating students and smoke from the various fireplaces making visibility difficult in some areas. The entire sight was mesmerizing even to the detached Harry, and he couldn't keep the smile from his lips as he heard Tracey mutter, "Home, sweet home."

It wasn't long before a seventh year noticed his presence and with a couple shouts and a few hand motions, the music immediately lowered and the masses turned to look at what had caused the interruption of their festivities. The small, plump girl manning the radio directed those glaring at her towards the balcony overlooking the room, and soon all eyes were on the undisputed leader of their house.

With naught but a smile Harry simply nodded his head in approval of their actions and turned to descend the stairs. Contrary to perturbing the silent crowd with his lack of a speech, they only cheered louder, knowing the Potter heir was not one for an abundance of unnecessary words and platitudes.

"Let's hear it for Harry, our true Champion!"

The call rang out from a seventh year as he passed the throng of students milling about the entrance and was picked up by most others in a heartbeat. Tracey shot one last proud grin at her best friend before she entered the fold and took up a drink offered by an already tipsy Blaise Zabini.

For his part, Harry graciously returned the various handshakes, hugs, and nods of approval and respect that greeted him as he entered the midst of the crowd. The music turned on again, louder than ever, and the party resumed right where it picked off. He paid it all little mind though, as he moved to the entrance to the common room, knowing the person he most desired to see wouldn't be here.

Without a second glance at the raging party being more or less thrown in his honor, Harry Potter disappeared from the Slytherin common room, heedless of several eyes trailing his disappearance into the bowels of the castle and leaving behind a particularly heart-sore girl. 

* * *

Harry continued his trek to the second floor girls' bathroom where he knew his heart's desire would be. The commotion of the night and its revelations had been so overbearing, he'd not had the time to even see her let alone check on how she was handling all this. He had his suspicions, but more than anything he wanted to simply reassure her and, if her were honest with himself, he wanted reassuring from her as well. Loathe as some were to admit it, himself often included; Harry Potter was only ever human.

However, thoughts of his olive-eyed, freckled, brunette paramour came to an abrupt halt when a figure rose through the floor and impeded his path. Bathed in light and absolutely void of further motion, most others would have trembled at the sight of the specter. As it was, Harry just cautiously approached the figure.

"Baron… what can I do for you?"

"Heir."

The solemn ghost cast off its tattered ethereal cloak and pierced Harry with a dead gaze, quite literally. Silence that would have leveled most other teens ensued, and it was readily apparent that neither of them were men of many words. Finally, the dead man broke the quiet first.

"Tonight's occurrence… I am aware of who did it."

This caught Harry's attention. While the Baron had always been amicable with Harry, or as amicable as a Slytherin ghost could be, the two hardly ever traded words unless a need had arisen for them from either side. The Bloody Baron happened to see Harry as his heir in the House of Salazar, and he never contested the strange stock of faith placed in him by the ghost. He saw no need for the ghost to lie so Harry stepped closer, allowing his curiosity to show through.

"Who?"

The darkened hall only seemed to become darker still as the macabre specter redrew its hood over his face. The tall stature of the Baron looked more intimidating now than ever, but Harry couldn't fathom the sudden need for theatrics from the departed. Even still, he was cautious. Even the light of the moon outside couldn't seem to pierce through the blackness that filled the hallway. Silence reigned and stretched on.

Harry wasn't in the mood to press the question or repeat himself, and even less inclined to abide mind games. Nonetheless, he held his tongue and respected the ghost enough to explain in due time. All the while the darkness only grew steadier. Then - when only the specter's vacant form was visible in front of him - Harry's sharp senses picked up movement behind him. A gut instinct warned him of foreign intent in the air.

Reflexes honed by years of turmoil and danger-close encounters allotted him the time to turn and cast a propulsive shield in time to deflect a sickly looking curse. Magic swelled in him and he called it forth to wandlessly bash away a streamlined redactor before cracking his wand out and casting an arsenal of bone crushing spells and limb severing curses, which was to him, child's play. The attacker in the dark, however, proved more than up to the task of deflecting and routing his bombardment and went on the assault once more with even darker spells. Orange and vibrant green lights bled into red and blue as spell upon spell was launched and answered in quick succession, bathing the frozen portraits in bursts of color.

Warm up or not, Harry'd had enough for the night when a spear of ice nearly nicked his cheek. Raw magic that could warp steel with a mere thought alone blossomed from the powerful young wizard's chest and slammed against a surprisingly mountainous shield of equal strength. The crack of the collision ushered a sharp clap of light, not unlike lightning, which briefly illuminated the nearly pitch black hall. In that second, Harry saw something that immediately had him pushing back the magic keeping the hallway unlit, his intent seeking out illumination and lighting all the torches in the corridor. He'd had no previous disposition to the dark before as he could fight just as well with limited use of his sight and even capitalize on it. However, now he had to be sure of what he'd seen.

With the lighting of the torches, the magical presence holding its own against his own power swelled and receded just as easily as it had come. In the now fairly lit hall, a figure stood in front of him with the Baron appearing off to the side. The assailant appeared unconcerned with the swift change of pace in the encounter, his eyes boring into the baffled leader of Slytherin House. He was perhaps even unbothered by the eventuality of one of the Headmasters coming to investigate the sudden and violent burst in magical usage within the castle walls, something any intruder would be well aware of.

Harry couldn't be bothered with any of that either, however, as for the second time that night he found himself looking in the mirror. Except, it wasn't a mirror and it didn't look happy.

"We need to talk."

* * *

Just a sudden plot idea I had to run with. I hope you enjoy the slow build of this particular Harry's world and the direction of the few characters I've shown so far. You'll find when it's all laid out that it's a hell of a refreshing cast with a rather interesting narrative idea, if I'm allowed to say such things while retaining a sense of modesty, so please stick around.


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